Black Roses
by of-bad-faith former isolde2
Summary: BLGW: A darling courtesan, a scion of Blackblood. See how they fall.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Black Roses  
  
Author: of_bad_faith  
  
Pairing: BL/GW, BL/NM, GW/LL  
  
Rating: NC-17  
  
It's complicated, really, the way you intrigue me. You're a little Gryffindor lion, not even worthy of my attention; and yet you interest me, make me want to know you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know you inside and out, as intimately as possible. I want to be your lover, friend, mother, goddess, mistress... I want to own you. I need to touch you silky bloodred hair, I ache to touch it everywhere. I shouldn't want you, shouldn't desire you, shouldn't even care about you. But I do. Maybe its because you're so much like me in theory and so utterly different in practice. I too have been touched by evil since an early age. The Dark Arts were my childhood; I never danced in gardens, unless you count Narci and I under the stars. You, you lived a homely life in a small cottage far away from Black Manor. You were a small, happy, giggling child. I was cold, reserved, and distant for everyone but Narci. For Narci, I was passionate, politic, and opinionated. Much like you, actually. The truth of you came out with Luna, your favorite, did it not? You played her like Narci played the flute, intensely, beautifully, and gracefully. You gave her a small part of you, and she held onto it like a clam to its pearl. You found her pearl, did you not? You licked it clean over and over again, til she collapsed from pleasure, did you not? You held it, watched her cry, and licked her tears, did you not? She loved you, did you love her?  
  
fallen angels at my feet  
  
I should hate you. My blood tells me to, and I can barely resist its delicious urges. I could kill you, dear, did you know that? With my wand of ebony wood, with my bare hands, with my fellow Death Eaters... the possibilities for your death are endless. I don't have to keep you here. I'm here, why should you be? I hate you--I love you--I can't stop thinking of you. It's so unutterably sad. I shouldn't care; I can't care. Don't want to, but I do. Why do I want to touch you again? Your soft red curls, lightly glossed lips, passion-darkened bronze eyes... You are electrifying my dear. You take me prisoner, and I steal you over and over again. Why? I can, I must, I need to. I trace your breasts lightly with my tongue, circling them, then finally biting the nipple so hard I draw blood. You love the pain, though, don't you? You love to give it, to receive it. You couldn't live without it, could you? When I bite you all over, you love it, don't you? When I take you by force, you scream and arch your back in passion. You little whore. I play you, you play Luna, and Luna has no one to play. My beloved Narci plays me like her violin, and coaxes beautiful sounds from me. I try to do that to you, sometimes I succeed, but no matter what you're off with someone else. You're such a fake tart, you vile, horrendous bitch.  
  
whispered voices at my ear  
  
I want to kill you, poisonous Gryffindor slut. You claim to be noble and just, but you're far from it, you shit. I hate you. I will kill you. I want your body, but never your love. Love is a lie, it'll only leave me. Your body can tell no lies, and I can read it just like a book. How should I kill you, little girl? Should I drain every drop of blood from your body, and watch you writhe in pain, screaming for deliverance at the top of your little lungs? Should I kill you quickly with my wand, an Avada Kedavra? Should I torture you until you draw your last breath? Should I have someone else kill you, and merely watch? What way would you like to die, my darling courtesan? You'd like me to touch you while you die? That's certainly fine with me. I'll wear gloves, so as not to taint myself any further with you. My baby whore, that's who you are. I caress your breasts through my silken black gloves, your nipples stiffen slightly, and you moan, tilting your head back. I love how reactive you are, my dear. I slowly slip off your white dress, taking the most time I possibly can. It fits your skin like a glove, and I love the feel of your freely liberated skin. Pure white alabaster skin dotted with brown-red freckles. How I've always loved the smooth feel, the gentle glide of your abundant curves. You are beautiful, you tiny tart. The dress is up, over your head, off your body. All you have left is your black bra, black knickers, and black garter stockings. You penniless, cocky twit. How you think everything is about you is just sickening, to say the least. I detest your ever-giggling girlishness. It's pathetic. Don't you know how to cast a spell, how to fight, how to talk, how to read, how to right? You don't give off that impression. You spin around in front of me, and I stop you when your back is to me. Slowly, I unclasp your bra, and cast it aside. I revel in your skin, in your dirt, in your invisible filth. You pitiful whore.  
  
death before my eyes/lying next to me i fear  
  
I touch you while I stand behind you, you moan softly and rest your head on my shoulder. You trust me, don't you? You don't believe my death warnings; you don't notice the approach of your death. Oh my darling whore, I wish you knew. I want to see your fear, not your compliance. I don't want your trust, I want your hate. You look up at me questioningly, passion-filled eyes looking so innocent. Oh, my darling, you make me want to ravish you so. Your innocent act is just that, an act. One that would cause even the most hardened Death Eater to take her, to pound her into the dust. That's how I feel now, my little tart. I slip my hands down from your breats, slowly cascading down your skin, smirking slightly as you moan. I reach a patch of curled red hair, and push a finger inside. You're explosively reactive, my darling courtesan. You arch into me incredibly, butt pressed into my back, head even further against my shoulders. I swish my finger around a little, feeling you clench around it. I pick a knife up off my desk and press the stainless steel to your backside. You stiffen, eyes darting frantically at the ceiling. You know now that I was telling the truth, don't you? I place one finger on your pearl, and you once again arch back. I trace a circle around your left breast, turning you around to lick the blood off you. You shudder, groaning as my tongue slowly moves over your blood, taking it into me. It tastes of you, my baby whore. The flavor is unique, dirty, pure, blue. I know not what to make of it. Its nothing like my Blackblood, or 'Meda's. I've never tasted Narci's; she always drinks mine in a small wineglass, toasting me with it.  
  
she beckons me shall i give in/upon my end shall i begin 


	2. 2

I cut your right breast, and you scream, for this cut is deeper than the last. Once more, I lick up your blood, like a cat would drink milk. Its flavor still confuses me, different than anything I've ever tasted. Oh, I love your taste, your feel, your touch. I hate you, I really do, but your taste is exquisite. Narci would certainly approve. I bring the knife down, slicing deeper and deeper. You continue screaming, lost amidst passion and pain. I lay you against the desk, your back arching so your head almost rested on it. How flexible you are, my dear. You crack your eyes open slightly, revealing a darkened bronze color, and you moan incoherently. You hate this and yet you love it. How similar we are indeed. I cut a circle open around your navel and you let out an ear-piercing scream. I lean in to kiss you, exploring your mouth with my tongue as I get blood all over my silver dress. You're like wine darling, I could get drunk on you and revel in it forever. Oh, you are my favorite drink, little whore. You taste of everything, darkness, light, happiness, sadness, pureblood, filth. I can never get enough of you. It's a pity I must kill you. I extricate myself from your delectable lips and probing tongue to trail it down your body until I find the bloody circle around your navel. Once again, I drink it. Completely intoxicating, I lose myself in you. But you don't mind that, do you? You like it when I lose myself; it reminds you of you. I delve further down, hearing your gasps, but not quite comprehending them fully. You love it when I lick you down there, don't you? You're such a tart, darling. You put your hands to my head and push me further in, your words coming as incoherent gasps. I once again brandish the knife, you don't notice, too lost in passion, I leave you, you cry out, and I steal your pearl with my hard-earned steel. You howl in pain, reminding me of Siri, a blood traitor to the Blackblood, I smile, and return to my previous activities, drinking your blood as if it were Narci's delicate wines. It's red, my darling courtesan, the color of your beautiful hair. And, oh, how I love to play with your hair. I wish it were mine; it can be, because you're dying, my sweet.  
  
forsaking all i've fallen for  
  
You bleed, you cry, you sob, you pound at my back, but I merely smirk. I kiss you with my lips stained from your blood, tears fall to rest on my cheeks, and into our entwined mouths. You're so sad now, aren't you? You're going to die now, and you see your death approaching. Do I excite you enough now? You do sound quite enthralled, my dear. Do you like the feel of your blood rushing out of your body, leaving you forever? Does it fill you with ecstasy, making you scream and moan? Why yes it does. Not that you'd ever admit it, because it's going to kill you, and you don't want that, do you? I take up the knife once more, and slice at your curled tuft of hair, viciously hacking at it, a bit like wanderers in the jungle, trying to reach some sort of ancient civilization. Your blood could be the drink of an ancient civilization, so rich, so old, so pure. I plunge the knife into your backside, and you scream, so loudly and so high I'm afraid the beautiful glass windows will rupture. Don't worry, my darling, I'll make sure you rest in peace. You're hairless down there now, so you'll never have to worry about it showing in your tiny little "outfits". Not that you'll be wearing those outfits anymore... I cut and cut and cut, it seems like your death is drawing closer, then you sit up more, though how this is possible I don't know. You've lost so much blood, my sweet, do you even have much more? The Gryffindor spirit in you has awakened now, but it's too late for you, my pet. You push at me frantically, trying to make me go away, because, damnit, I'm going to die, and I laugh now, my passion awakened. You've seen me now, I realize that, and I revel in the beauty of the situation. You're screwed over no matter what goes down, because you've lost too much blood, you're going to die. And I'm going to laugh as long as I can without taking a breath, cry for you, my darling courtesan, and piss on your corpse only because I can. You're going to hate me for who I am now, I'm going to find you bloody hilarious, and you'll scream and scream and scream because this is a nightmare you can't escape.  
  
i rise to meet the end  
  
You're ready, aren't you? You know its coming, you're trying to redeem yourself in your mind, you don't want to die but you know you will, oh, your angst is so beautiful, my darling. So sweet and angsty, for Merlin's sake! I love you, love you, love you, and its almost a shame that I must kill you now--almost. So do you have any last words, dear? Any redeeming statements? I'm sure you don't, because there is no way to redeem you, you sad, sad slut. I hate you so much I can't describe it in words, for words are too simplistic for the force of my hatred. Oops! There goes a coral pink nipple, and, oh my! There goes the other one, such a fine pair while flying through the air, falling, now hitting the ground. I hear your screams through dim ears, no longer focusing on you, just venting all of my lovely rage onto your luxurious body. Hope you don't mind, darling. There goes your ear, with its adorable pearl studded piercing, your nose, image of perfection that it is, and you still sob and scream uncontrollably, hoping someone will hear you. No, my pretty little girl, there's no one here to hear your last pleas. Only me, and I turn a deaf ear onto the most sanctimonious of pleas. They don't mean anything coming from you, I know it, you know it, there's nothing more to say, really. It's all been hashed and rehashed, said over and over, so there's nothing meaningful left for you to say, is there? Oh my poor little baby, you almost make me feel for you. Your eyes are closing now, your screams quieting, your attacks beginning to cease, you're beginning to leave. Don't leave me! You-can't- go. Damnit, it's too early for you to die, you were supposed to last. My darling, I love you so much I can't even begin to justify what I've done to you. Thank goodness your death is approaching, I can't stand you anymore, you hateful bitch. Your blood flows faster than ever now out of your body, you're sighing in ecstasy, flying up above me, gently chastising me. How can you do this to me? I don't see how a pitiful whiny brat like you can make me care. It can't, damnit. You can't make me care about you. You can't. You're bleeding so badly, my little one. Would you like me to alleviate the pain?  
  
"You're a black rose, 'Trix. A horrible, poisonous black rose. And you made me one too," you whisper though cracked lips, glaring at me through half- opened eyes. I smile as your spirit floats up and away from me. Have fun in Purgatory, darling.  
  
I'm finally free. 


End file.
